Cinder and Smoke
by grumkinsnark
Summary: “No matter what you hear, or what you see...promise me you won’t get out of bed.” Dean had told her not to forget, and she didn’t. But Dean had also told her not to get out of bed. And she did. Despite his plea, she did.


Oh, look. A fic that's one hundred percent anguish and despair. Happy Valentine's Day. It's also semi-AU as of "The Song Remains the Same." Just FYI.

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**Cinder and Smoke

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**

_On November 2__nd__, 1983…don't get out of bed. No matter what you hear, or what you see…promise me you won't get out of bed._

Mary Winchester died the night the so-called Dean Van Halen told her something would happen, and though one might think her memory was faulty, or she didn't pay attention to the weird man with a last name that would become quite popular in a few years, they would be wrong.

It wasn't like she didn't remember.

Dean had been completely serious—hell, he'd shed a tear—and he'd already proven he wasn't a nutjob. (Well, at least no more insane than any other hunter was.) More than that, it was a cryptic, yet dire, warning. Dean hadn't elaborated, but obviously there was something he knew. She didn't know how he did—it's not like he was from the _future_ or anything—but he'd been confident.

She also didn't know why he'd looked so forlorn, so _devastated_ when he saw her holding John's newly reanimated body. Okay, so she'd made a deal. And yes, it wasn't her finest moment. But so what? How would it affect Dean? He was leaving anyway.

She'd made a great life with John, never telling him how he survived—when he'd asked, she'd just said he'd been knocked out. Neck broken? _Of course not, John. You weren't dead! _She wouldn't let John's soul be corrupted by her hunter upbringing, she _wouldn't_.

She tried to forget the mysterious Dean's warning, and for a few years, she'd almost managed. Then 1979 came around, and she found out she was pregnant. A beautiful baby boy, with bright green eyes and a wide smile. She told John she wanted to name him Dean, after her mother, but that was just a convenient lie. Truth was, her baby reminded her inexplicably about _that_ Dean, so long ago.

Years passed, and she once again tried to forget about her deal, about Dean's words. May second of 1983 rushed upon her, and the stick turned blue again. This time, she legitimately named her baby after her father. Sam was born with blue-green eyes, her eyes, and they were more subdued than Dean's, but held the same inquisitiveness.

Months went along, Dean adoring his younger brother, waiting impatiently for that day when Sammy would be able to wrestle with him and play soccer or basketball and everything in between. In fact, as days, then weeks, then months matured, Mary began to think the Demon had either forgotten about her or died or something. After all, it'd passed her ten year mark. Surely that was a good sign? But exactly six months later, Mary spent the day on edge. Waiting for something to happen. It went without incident; maybe something had changed the timeline…?

She brought Dean to say goodnight to Sammy and, like every other night, Dean didn't want to leave his brother. Reluctantly, he settled for giving Sam a kiss on his forehead, staring into the crib fondly. John came in, a big grin on his face at spotting his oldest, and with a squeal, Dean ran to John's arms happily. As her boys said another sentiment to Sam, Mary gave a warm smile, thinking her life really couldn't be any better.

Her dad had been wrong: she _could_ get out of the hunting fate. She could have a normal family. A loving family. Two gorgeous, sweet sons, and an adoring husband. Dean didn't know what he was talking about. That's all there was to it.

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At eight fifteen that night, Mary's awakened. At first, she doesn't know what caused it, but then she sees the lights on Sam's baby monitor, and hears his unhappy cries. She calls John's name, but upon inspection, she discovers he's not in bed. She doesn't worry, because he's done this before. Has a restless night and goes downstairs to watch TV, or simply sit in either of his sons' rooms, watching them sleep peacefully.

Mary thinks it was the former, because Sam's still crying, and John's usually been able to get him to rest fairly quickly. Dean had, strangely, kept regular hours when he was littler, only once or twice roused his parents in the middle of the night. Didn't stop him from nearly eating her out of house and home, or sitting still for more than five minutes at a time, but at least his sleep patterns were consistent.

Sighing, Mary sits up, shivering in her thin nightgown. She hears Sam's wails again, but pauses this time.

_No matter what you hear…_

Mary shakes her head. Surely, Dean hadn't meant if Sam got upset. Babies cry all the time. _Surely_, he'd meant something like a bump or the sound of rats, right? Besides, Mary's not going to _ignore_ her child.

Biting her lip despite her resolution, Mary walks quietly into the hall, towards Sam's room. As she nears the end, the wall light starts flickering, the shadows reaching into every crevice before the yellowy rays banish them.

Her breath hitches for a second, hunter reflexes and instincts never quite having gone away. Flickering lights: textbook ghost or spirit activity.

But that's impossible. Mary had mixed salt in with the paint when they'd redecorated, put iron rods wherever was inconspicuous. No spirits or demons could get in. Absolutely not. Determinedly, she taps the glass covering, willing the lamp to steady.

It does.

See? Nothing to worry about. She's just being paranoid. Exhaling, she reaches the entrance to Sam's room; she sees a figure there, and her heart skips a beat, before she mentally slaps herself. Sam's stopped crying now, which obviously means John had finally calmed him down. And anyway, it's John's voice that shushes her.

She ignores the niggling feeling in the back of her mind.

Her hunter sense of being on guard has always been there. It's the same as always. No different.

She's about to go back to her bedroom and scold herself for ever thinking Dean's warning had had any merit, when her ears catch something. From the living room, it sounds like. Curious, she walks down the stairs. Her blood runs cold.

The TV's showing some infomercial, and it's clearly John's form snoring in the recliner, face lit up blue.

Thoughts go through her mind fast as quicksilver.

John. In the chair.

Dean. In his room.

Figure. In Sam's nursery.

Sammy. In danger.

"Sammy!" she yells in horror, taking the stairs two at a time, her brain on one track only.

She skids into her son's nursery, hand on the doorframe. The figure turns slowly around, Sam held delicately in its arms. Mary can't make out a form, but where its eyes are, dark yellow appears.

"It's _you_!" she gasps.

And all of a sudden, in the scant seconds she has, she realizes with a heart-crushing blow that Dean _had_ been right.

_No matter what you see…_

The air in Mary's throat catches as she desperately prays she could turn back time, heed Dean's wishes. Sammy would be okay…if the Demon wanted to hurt him, he would have already, right?

She's only able to have her babies' faces, John's face, pass through her mind before she feels a piercing pain in her abdomen, and lets out an involuntary shriek. She feels herself slide upwards along the wall by an invisible force, feels her life slipping away, feels tears down her cheeks and regret and remorse through her veins.

She hears John yell her name, and then through blurry vision sees him run into the room. The Demon's gone by now, and Sam's uncomfortable, but calm. Mary's blood drips, and lands on John's fingers.

He looks up, face instantly contorting in terror, and then Mary feels like she's being ripped in two by a white-hot sword. Flames almost obscure her sight, but not before she spots her oldest at the door, his young, jade eyes saucers as he stares up at his mother, slaughtered, on the ceiling.

The last thing Mary knows is an explosion and a last prayer that John, Dean, and Sammy would escape with their lives. With their souls unblackened.

_Don't get out of bed…_


End file.
